


A Bouquet of Marigolds and Cyclamens

by All0doxaphobia



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mutual Pining, for now, is this a crack ship?, it's kids being cute, that's later tho, then why am I crying?, where are y'alls parents?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:08:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All0doxaphobia/pseuds/All0doxaphobia
Summary: Lucy has held steadfast to the secrets of the Sinclair family. It's been her duty since she was young.With enough time, she was able to grow fond of their history. Of their secrets.She never knew that, in time, she'd become one.
Relationships: Alexander/Rachel, Lucy & Alexander, Lucy & Tristan, Lucy/Tristan Sinclair, Tristan & Alexander
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	A Bouquet of Marigolds and Cyclamens

**Author's Note:**

> "A true Sinclair never apologizes. A true Sinclair fights to protect their truth."  
> Since we know virtually nothing about the Sinclair family other than what Lauren has told us, what I say goes, and what I say is that Tristan is the eldest.

Given how strict the Sinclair family was about their staff, it was a miracle that Lucy’s mother managed to secure a position for both of them. Nevertheless, she found the victory difficult to celebrate.

“ _ Maman _ , this uniform itches!” Lucy couldn’t help but warble as her dark hair was twisted into a tight bun at the base of her neck, a cap settling atop of her head. Lucy was never given the chance to grow comfortable with colors outside of shades of brown and grey, but the stiff press of black wool on her skin was an old friend she'd never enjoy the company of.

Her mother’s voice was a soft crescendo that carried lilting exasperation in a bundle of affectionate reassurances.  _ It was only temporary,  _ she’d said.  _ The Sinclairs pay well, we’ll only have to work for a couple of months to get off our feet. _

Looking back, Lucy had half the mind to laugh.

If only it ended that simply. If only it could be wrapped up so nicely, with a neat little bow, a simple hand-in of a resignation letter. If only, if only.

Lucy’s hand was tight in her mother’s as they stared down the looming beast of the Sinclair manor. It wasn’t meek in any sense but rather glittered in extravagance, ancient artifice that stuck out like a sore thumb and made Lucy’s mouth go sour in resentment. “ _ There are only four people living in this house,”  _ she’d complained under her breath _. “What do they need such a large house for?”  _ Her mother had shushed her as soon as the words left her lips. It was none of their business. It’d never be something Lucy could wrap her head around fully, the ways of the rich.

The staff was friendly. At least, friendly in a way that toed the line between adult to child, and between coworkers. Lucy, the only child amongst them. Lucy, the wide-eyed, scrappy little thing, a quivering sunflower in a field of Amaryllis. She kept their gazes on her, lest they turn on her mother, where she’d have to watch their eyes change into something of contempt for the woman holding her hand.  _ How could she bring her child into her labor so young, _ she could hear them sneering, even if it were merely an echo in their heads. A whisper from behind the corner, as if she weren’t there at all, hearing every word.

Terrible gossips, all of them. She and her mother were swiftly separated. Her mother to the kitchens, and Lucy to the cleaning crew. She didn’t bother to question why - she knew. It’d be easier to shut her up and out the way than if she were in the kitchen

The house was quite beautiful, even though she tried her best not to admit it. The smell of mahogany and autumn breeze wound through the house, curling under Lucy’s fingers as she dusted the smooth polished mantels and expensive vases, decorated with swirls of gold and blooms of red and blue curling in soft peaks and divots around the delicate porcelain. It was beautiful. Everything here was beautiful, down to the silk curtains she pushed aside from the windows to let sunlight bathe the sitting room, catching the white of her skin as she let herself fall into the warmth of the sun that battled the incoming gust of winter air.

This house embraced opulence with a firm hand. It made Lucy feel sick with resentment, knowing the money they had to line their windows with silk, and their walls with gold could easily go into the pockets of their workers, who were getting paid just barely above the measly minimum wage that's normally receive. Soft whispers buried in her brain saying  _ it’s for the best  _ were drowned out by the urge to curl her fingers around these deep red drapes and  _ yank  _ until they pooled at her feet like blood, to overturn the crystal and porcelain lining the mantels. 

_ Thump _

Lucy furrowed her brow, lowering her hand just before she acted on her thoughts, the muffled thudding getting louder and louder as one pair of feet turned into two.

_ Thump thump thump. _

"Tristan, Alexander, get back here!” a thunderous voice followed two young boys as they scampered into the sitting room, fists full of trinkets nabbed from rooms she hadn’t even thought about entering. One boy, around her age, leaped over the sofa in an attempt to hide the voice going louder and louder as it approached. He had a shock of deep red hair and big grey eyes that skirted over her with ease as if she didn’t exist.

The other that came stumbling in was about half a head taller than her, with ruffled brown hair and glittering brown eyes, mischief flitting through them as he beheld his brother crouched behind the sofa. His feet were light and deliberate as he charged across the room, bringing their ruckus with them. Their loud, room-shaking ruckus that caused the delicate heirlooms to sway with their heavy steps.

“P-please, slow down-” Lucy protested weakly. If they heard her at all, they didn’t acknowledge her. In fact, their rowdiness only grew, and a particularly delicate vase hadn’t taken too kindly to their noise. Especially when the brown-haired boy rushed past it, his shoulder brushing the mahogany shelf it had been resting on.

Lucy watched in abject horror as the vase teetered over the edge it’d been straddling, the shatter of porcelain leaving a ringing in her ears. She was at the boys’ side in an instant, her palms cupping her cheeks in condensed panic. Their eyes found her almost immediately. Lucky for her that they decided this was the time to notice she existed.

“Well?” the brown-haired assailant turned his nose up at her, tilting his head towards the pieces of the vase, scattered at their feet like teeth, or the stray petals of white roses painted red. “Clean it up, maid.”

Maid.

_ Maid. _

Her lip curled in contempt. He made the title sound dirty. Worthless, like a bug to be crushed underfoot almost immediately. These  _ insects  _ were people who kept his house clean and his belly full, didn’t he know that?

Without thinking, the words dripped from her tongue like bitter poison.

“ _ You  _ made the mess.” She crossed her arms, her brow furrowed in childish stubbornness that would be frowned upon, should any adult be present. Luckily, this boy was here to do that for them. He bared his teeth, as if utterly  _ shocked  _ that there was someone in the world beneath him that had the  _ audacity  _ to speak down to him. With that, a boy with three extra years of maturity became nothing more than an angry little boy. The red-haired boy tucked neatly behind his shoulder was a picture of the conflict, amusement, and shock battling across his face in a wavering grin.

The boy sneered down at her, and they stood there for a beat of silence. He opened his mouth to retort, but he’d only gotten a sharp breath out before his father came into the room, filling the space and snuffing out the sunlight with a chill that ran its bony fingers down her spine. It didn’t take long for him to see the shattered vase on the floor between the three children.

“Tristan-” he spoke curtly, glaring at the brown-haired boy, who stiffened. “What happened here?”

His voice sounded calm, but the look on his face suggested anything but. Lucy took an unwilling step back, seeking the warmth of the closest source near her, that being the boy, Tristan, who held her at bay as if repulsed by the thought of her touching him. He pointed a thin finger at her, his eyes glinting in childish vengeance.

“The maid girl knocked over the vase, and is refusing to clean up her mess!” his lie came so easily and so quickly, it drained the blood from Lucy’s cheeks. Her hands splayed into the open air. She took a step back, and he took two steps forward. His fists, large, monstrous things, were balled at his side.

“I- I did no such thing, my lord! It was your son who knocked it over, and I simply-”

Lucy cried out as he grabbed a fistful of her hair, dark waves of deep brown spilling from where it was twisted into a bun. Sharp needles shot through her skull as he yanked her forward to look him dead in the eye. This wasn’t the warm brown of her mother’s eyes, but cold, hard steel grey cut directly from the mines that swallowed up canaries and poisoned them until their weak hearts ceased to beat.

“Are you calling my son a  _ liar _ ?” his voice was barely above a whisper, but the chill that promised nothing but pain should she answer incorrectly was enough to stop her heart for one horrifying moment.

“I- no, My Lord.” she choked out, tears pricking just behind her eyes, welling in her throat.

A clap of thunder sent stinging electricity burning through her cheek where he slapped her, the force knocking her to her knees. She could feel heat cloying where his open palm met her skin, and...blood welling where her palms met shards of porcelain. Hatred for the boy staring down at her began to clot in her throat, forcing her to swallow it down.

“Clean up this mess.” he sneered, his thudding footsteps already retreating from the sitting room, ringing like the chime of a church bell following execution in her ears. Tristan followed closely after him, his eyes glittering in  _ satisfaction.  _ Yes, she learned her lesson. She’d never think about challenging him again.

Why even bother? Why even go up against him in the first place? What would that prove? Her hands shook as she began to gather the broken porcelain. Her cheeks were warm from the cut of tears blurring her vision, but she didn’t make a sound. She wouldn’t speak again after this.

The clatter of glass caught her gaze. Small, boyish hands curled in front of hers, attached to the boy with copper hair. Alexander was his name. She yanked her hands away, jerking back suddenly.

“Please don’t do that.” he pursed his lips, concern etched on his face as easily as a paintbrush glides over a canvas. “I want to help.”

His eyes, grey like his father’s, held a warmth that betrayed the harshness of steel, and the wisdom his father sorely lacked, for a boy merely a year or two older than her. Lucy loosened her shoulders, despite the lingering wariness around him.

He isn’t any random boy. Comfort around an aristocrat’s son demands trouble, and nothing less than that.

Lucy dropped her gaze. Silently, they began to clean up the mess, her only indication that he was there being the slow intakes of breath and clamor of porcelain as it was collected into a dustpan and thrown out.

They finished quickly, and Lucy noted with vague pride that the room looked undisturbed, save for the missing vase. She could feel Alexander’s eyes on her back and she wiped her hands on her skirt, the white of her apron capturing smears of blood she was finally noticing. Oh.

“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. You didn’t have to help me.” She searched the room for the bin where they’d dumped the shattered vase, and found it next to the young boy. She cursed herself for her carelessness and approached him tentatively. “I will no longer be a bother.” she couldn’t find the energy to offer more than a weak glance, her cheek still burning with a phantom fire.

Alexander didn’t budge.

“You’re hurt.” Lucy pressed her lips into a thin line, her meek attempt at folding her bleeding hand in her skirts proving useless when he grabbed her wrist, and pulled her out of the sitting room, paying no mind to her protests as he pulled her into the restroom and made her sit on the counter.

“Really, it’s nothing-” she countered, but her voice shriveled in her throat at the harsh glare he shot her way.  _ He looked so much like his father when it mattered. _ He rummaged through the cabinets for rubbing alcohol and bandages.

“I apologize for my brother, miss-?”

“....Lucy.”

“- Miss Lucy. He… takes after our father a lot more than I do when it comes to the servants.” his hands, larger than hers, but not by much, tugged at her wrist, and began cleaning off the blood that welled like dewdrops on the petal of her palm. Red on white, like the cracked vase in the sitting room. “On the bright side, it won’t take long before he feels bad and comes to apologize. I give it less than an hour.” He rattled off, trying for a smile. She couldn’t offer one back.

“Your father hit me because of him,” she said, her voice dry. Alexander tightened his lips. “He can apologize however many times he sees fit. But I can't forgive him for that, I’m sorry, my lord.” Her apology tasted bitter on her tongue, and he seemed to notice that.

“No need to feel sorry.” He brushed it off with a quick glance at her palm, neatly cleaned and bandaged. He was swift, for a noble. “And no need to call me ‘My Lord’ or ‘Mr. blah blah blah,’” he scrunched up his nose with distaste at the name, and she had half the mind to laugh at the look on his face. “Just Alexander or Alex will do.”

Lucy blinked. Once. Twice.

“I...your father would kill me if he heard me being so informal.” A sardonic smile spread over her lips, a nervous laugh finally bubbling between the two of them. Alexander shrugged, holding his hand out to help her down.

“Then I’ll just have to tell him that I told you to.” He offered her a big toothy grin, one she couldn’t quite match. He rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “He’s never questioned my wayward habits before, why should he start now?”

_ Wayward? _

“You don’t seem very wayward to  _ me. _ ” Lucy’s voice picked up in tempo, in volume, her mood picking itself up with the soft guidance of Alexander’s soft smiles and gentle laughs. He started at her words, surprise overtaking his boyish face, auburn brows nearly touching his hairline, which teased a genuine laugh from her  _ finally _ .

“Believe me, not everyone is as nice to the servants as I am.” He puffed out his chest in a vague note of pride, earning himself another giggle from her. “I’m a different breed of noble.”

“Indeed you are.”

Lucy’s blood went cold as they both realized that Tristan was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed with a bored expression on his face.  _ How long had he been standing there? _

He held his hands in the air in a display of surrender, noting Alexander’s sour expression. “I’m not here to antagonize you. I just came to apologize.”

Lucy caught Alexander’s gaze. So he was right. Her injured hand twitched involuntarily at his words, eager to throw the heaviest thing she could find at his head and  _ run.  _ But she restrained herself.

“And since you seem to enjoy Alex’s wayward habits, I offer a similar truce as well.” Tristan was getting steadily closer, his eyes never leaving hers, hazel clashing with mahogany brown. Lucy’s face drained of all color, but her stance remained rigid.

“You can call me Tristan.” The grin on his face was a weak attempt at mirroring Alexander’s kind smile. It made Lucy’s skin crawl, and her hands tightened around a fistful of her dress.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,  _ my liege, _ ” her lip curled back in a sneer. “But really, I must go. I still have a  _ mess  _ that needs cleaning up.”

A wave of catharsis washed over her as her shoulder knocked into Tristan’s on her way out. Lucy would settle for a truce.

It didn’t have to be a stable one.

* * *

Weeks passed. 

The days got better.

Surprisingly, her time in the Sinclair manor seemed to improve now that she had a friend to keep her company. Though, obviously it never improved too much.

Tristan didn’t seem to like Lucy’s act of defiance after the…  _ glass incident,  _ as Alexander liked to call it, so he enjoyed making Lucy’s job a living Hell. Knocking over delicate crystal and porcelain “by accident,” spilling food and drink when she so happened to pass by him, playing in the mud and trekking it  _ all over the rug.  _ Lucy had half the mind to kill him, especially when he took on that lopsided grin of his and deft hands that loved to muss her hair when she cornered him with hands on her hips.

Calling her that _awful nickname._

_Lucille._

It took one hell of an outburst involving screaming that could be heard from the other side of the manor to finally,  _ finally  _ shut him up.

Though, recently, she hadn’t seen him in weeks... _months_ now. Autumn trickled into winter, Lord Sinclair came and went. Tristan was nowhere she could find. She tried to pay it no heed. Especially now that she had less to clean without him being around, but she found herself, despite her best interest, actually  _ missing  _ his teasing. Missing that annoying lopsided grin of his, and ruffled brown hair. It was annoying, she supposed, but she certainly enjoyed the gentle clamor and excitement it brought.

“Lucy! Are you on break yet?” She inclined her head from where she was crouched by the fireplace, seeing Alexander standing over her, his hands behind his back, and swaying on his feet.  _ God, what has he done now? _

“I...not at the moment, no. I need to finish clearing the soot from the firepl-”

“Well, now you’re on a break! Follow me, I have something to show you!” Leaving no room for argument, he seized her wrist, yanking her off her feet and into a run with a speed that suggested anything but casual nature.

Winding hallways and looming portraits quickly turned to grass dusted in frost and snow and the smooth white glow of a sharp winter chill that they didn't seem to feel as he dragged her to the greenhouse, which she...shamefully didn’t know existed.

“Look at what I found!” Alexander exclaimed, pushing the doors open to reveal…  _ flowers.  _ Endless, endless flowers. Daisies, bluebells, delphiniums, curling over the walls, beckoning to her from beyond wreaths of ivy and moss. Her hands brushed against gardenias and hyacinths as Alexander pulled her deeper into the huge greenhouse.

“You didn’t know this place existed?” Lucy spun in awe, breathing in deep the sweet air of autumn breeze that carried spring flowers to her nose. Alexander laughed at her girlish whimsy, pushing her towards a collection of yellow flowers.

“What would I be doing in a greenhouse all year?” He laughed, curling his fist around a stray flower - a daisy, of all things - and bringing it to his nose. “Smelling the roses?”

“That’s a daisy, Alex.”

“I know  _ that- _ ”

“ _ Really _ , are you sure about that? The roses are right across from you-”

“Shut up and go look at the sunflowers over there! Those are your favorites, right?” Alexander huffed, tucking the daisy behind his ear. In the sea of dark red hair, it stuck out like a sore thumb, white and yellow floating pressed against copper rays and stone. He managed to make an innocent daisy look intense.

Lucy bit back a smile and retreated to where his slim hands pointed towards a patch of yellow.

“You’d better not get me in trouble for this-”

“I would never!”

Lucy scoffed in defiance to his claim. She wished she could call him out on his obvious lie, but she wasn't going to push her boundaries. She knew where not to push her luck, even with Alex. 

So she trailed her hands over the petals of sunshine yellow flowers, breathing in deep the sweet smell, and marveling at the glowing health of spring in the middle of the last dredges of winter.

She didn't notice footsteps from behind her.

She didn't notice the shadow overtaking her.

She did, however, instantly recognize the voice that sounded from behind her, sharp and chilled like a blade across marble.

"What are you doing here?"

jerking back suddenly, her hand shot out to grab the figure she knew by name by the collar, his hand curling around her wrist to keep her from swinging her palm across his cheek. _Tristan._

_ What in God's name is he doing here? _

"I should be asking you the same thing." She sneered, ripping her hand from his grip. Their eyes clashed, falling into that familiar loathing that swallowed her up like a warm hug.

But.

_ But. _

_ Something was off.  _ His gaze was too even-tempered, his grin too muted. His eyes lost the glimmer of mischief and the spark of contempt she'd grown used to seeing in his face as weeks with his company trickled into months.

"What's wrong with you?" She blurted, her fingers twisting into fists at her side before she could stop herself. "You always manage to ruin my day when you're in a bad mood, so spit it out so I can enjoy my break."

He laughed at that. It wasn't jeering, or lifeless. It was a deep, genuine laugh that made Lucy finally realize that this boy was, in fact, not a boy at all, but a young man. A young man with the mental age of a toddler, but a young man nonetheless.

"I don't mean to ruin your mood, Lucille." He shook his head, his gaze flitting down, not on her, but to the daffodils tangled amongst the sunflowers. Were they always blooming there? Had she missed them?

"I come here to get my mind off things."

"You have a mind? That's news to me-"

"Yes, Lucille, I have a mind! A very crowded one, at that!" He snapped, his lips pressing in a thin, contemptuous smile. His brows arched smoothly, the final touch in the picture of mild annoyance playing across his features like the notes on a piano.

Lucy pursed her lips, and they sat in tense silence, the crunch of leaves and rustle of plants a mere melody that played outside the sanctuary of the bubble they'd built around them. He was close. Too close. They seemed to notice that, but neither moved.

"I...suppose I haven't been fair to you, Lucille. I haven't been in the best mood as of late, what with my father being away and all-" He cupped the back of his neck sheepishly, a quirk she'd get used to seeing over time. Still, she was too young to notice this, and she dug in her heels.

"No. No, you haven't been very fair to me, my _liege-_ "

"I _really_ wish you'd stop calling me that-"

"You haven't been fair to me since I first arrived here! Why would you expect a different attitude from me?" She tilted her head in a parody of his boyish parades when they were mere months younger, her hair that had tumbled from her ponytail in soft curls resting on her shoulder.

A beat of silence passed. Then another, the chill of winter seeping through their little bubble, running it's wiry fingers over her arms, bringing goosebumps in their wake.

"But..." He seemed to say for her, his eyes trained on the daffodil that somehow managed to end up in between his fingers, twirling with distracted elegance.

Her pride caught in her throat, reeling back with harsh poison she wanted to spit in his face, that she forced herself to swallow down.

"But...I suppose I haven't been entirely fair as well." She turned her gaze to the yellow bloom in his palm. "I suppose...I suppose an apology is in order."

His attention snapped back to her, his eyes wide. Yes, she knew how the Sinclairs felt about apologies. 

_ A true Sinclair **never** apologizes. A true Sinclair fights to protect their truth. _

What a poisonous lie to tell your children, honestly. Lucy stared expectantly. Watched his jaw tic, emotions flare across his face, though he tried desperately to hide it.

He'd never been able to hide anything from her.

"....Yes, I do suppose an apology is in order."

A short burst of air left Lucy's lips, a smile lighting up her face. It was sly and sweet all at once, satisfaction a look he found he enjoyed on her features.

The boy held out the yellow flower to the girl.

Tried again.

"Truce?"

The girl accepted her offering, her gift.

"Truce."

When Alexander found Lucy again, hands full of desserts snatched from the kitchen, she was alone, save for the daffodil clutched in her fingers.

Yes, her days were definitely getting better.

**Author's Note:**

> Sunflower - longevity, loyalty, adoration. Sun symbol.  
> Amaryllis (victorian) - determination, strength, hard-won achievement/hard work  
> Daisies - innocence, purity  
> Daffodils - uncertainty, chivalry, respect or unrequited love, return my affections, new beginnings  
> Never have I hated a character more than Sinclair Sr.  
> I look forward to curb-stomping Tristan's joy within the next two chapters. I'm so ready for that catharsis.  
> I got a rush of joy writing Alexander and Lucy's friendship. Those two deserve the world, and if I were writing strictly fluff, I'd give them just that.


End file.
